The dawn breaks soft and gray, the kind of morning that slips in without fanfare, gentle and watchful.
I wake before the sun crests the hills, the castle still wrapped in shadows and quiet. Cealisie is curled against my side, her small hand still resting on my arm, her stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin like a tiny sentry standing guard through the night.
For a while, I just lie there, watching her breathe. Letting the stillness settle into my bones. Letting myself feel—not run, not steel myself, not plan.
Just be.
There's a peace in this moment, fragile but real. But I know it won't last. It never does, not here. Not in a place where silence hides sharp things and every kindness comes with a cost.
I slip from the bed carefully, leaving her undisturbed. The sword is still where I left it, and I pause to trace a finger along the raven's wing once more before lifting it into its sheath. The leather straps bite lightly into my shoulder as I secure it across my back, but it's a familiar weight now.
A necessary one.
I move quietly through the corridors, past the early-rising servants who bow low and avoid my gaze. The castle feels different in the morning hush—less like a battlefield, more like a memory. The stone beneath my bare feet is cool, grounding. Every echo of my steps sounds like a secret.
The council meeting is in three hours. I'm expected to attend. Expected to sit still, to smile politely while they speak over me and carve out a future I didn't choose.
But today, I won't.
Today, I need something more than politics and performance.
I head for the west wing instead. The old library.
No one will look for me there.
Not because they don't know where it is—but because no one believes I still go. They think I've left behind the girl who used to hide between the shelves with dusty books and stolen apples, who learned war strategies from forgotten scrolls and how to curse fluently in three dead languages.
They're wrong.
That girl never left. She just grew teeth.
I push open the creaking door and step into the quiet. Dust motes dance in shafts of early light through tall, narrow windows. The scent of old parchment and leather greets me like an old friend.
And I breathe.
In this room, I am not a pawn. I am not a princess.
I am something else entirely.
-
The library is colder than I remember. Or maybe I'm just more aware of it now—every draft between the shelves, every creak of old wood, every whisper of dust settling in forgotten corners. The place smells of parchment, of ink long dried, of something ancient and quietly watching.
My fingers trail along the spines of the books like greeting old friends, until they stop—abrupt, instinctive—on a worn leather cover. No title. Just a single emblem etched into the surface: a raven, wings outstretched, carved with the precision of reverence.
I pull it from the shelf with a care that feels like muscle memory. The moment I open it, the scent hits me—old paper and faded memory. I know this book. I used to read it in secret under candlelight, long past bedtime, imagining a world that once existed beyond the crown, beyond rules and rituals.
I settle into a shadowed alcove, light flickering from a high window above, and turn the familiar pages.
The story inside is one I know—but now, reading it again, it feels different. Less like myth. More like truth.
It tells of a time long before kingdoms, before crowns were forged and blood was spilled for borders. A time when the land was whole—when dragons soared freely, ravens guarded knowledge, serpents ruled the waters, and dire wolves watched the night. Each creature, each clan, lived in harmony—not ruled by coin or conquest, but by balance.
There were no kings then. Just people—diverse in form and spirit—sharing power equally. And for a time, it worked.
Until wealth came. Gold and silver crept in like rot beneath the floorboards. Ambition took root. Families who once shared land began carving it into pieces, building walls and arming themselves. The old balance faltered.
The book speaks of the Great Fracture—how the houses splintered. Dragons and Ravens stayed together, guardians of the skies and wisdom. Serpents and Wolves formed their own alliance, strength and cunning paired for survival. And beyond them, the rest of the land crumbled into greed and war.
The final pages are worn thin, but I know what they say. That someday, someone—or many—would rise not for power, but for restoration. Not to rule, but to rebuild. To remember.
I close the book slowly, fingers lingering on the cover.
It had felt like a fairy tale when I was young. But now, reading it again—after my mother's scorn, after the sword from Kenin, after Cealisie's quiet faith in me—it feels like a warning. A call.
A choice.
This kingdom I've inherited isn't built on balance. It's built on control. Image. Expectation. My life, curated like a performance. But somewhere out there, the memory of something older, better, still lingers.
And maybe I was never meant to be just a queen.
Maybe I was meant to be something far more dangerous than that.
Something the kings forgot to fear:
A daughter who remembers.
-
The book rests in my lap, heavy in a way that has nothing to do with its binding. I run my fingers over the page corners, soft from years of turning. The fire in the small hearth behind me has burned low, casting long, slanted shadows across the floor. Outside, the sea wind brushes against the stained glass, a faint whisper against the world's silence.
I read it again—the part about the houses.
The House of Dragons and Ravens remained together, bound by sky and knowledge.
The Wolves and Serpents, allied by instinct and strategy, turned inland.
And between them... distance. Separation.
Even in a time when they could have stood united against the rising tide of greed, they split.
Why?
Why did they separate?
The question flickers through me, irritating and familiar—like an itch beneath old armor.
They had the same goal, didn't they? To protect the balance. To resist the spread of power-hungry kings. So why splinter?
Maybe it wasn't pride. Maybe it wasn't even anger. Maybe... it was fear.
Fear that even the noblest intentions would one day rot from within. That even unity, if held too tightly, could become another kind of chain. Or maybe they believed the world was already too far gone to save all of it—and so they each saved what little they could.
Still. I can't help but wonder:
What would've happened if they stayed together?
If dragon-fire had flown over serpent-watched coasts? If raven-wisdom had guided wolf instincts? What could they have built if they'd trusted each other enough to try?
And why does that feel so familiar?
I think of the court. Of the council. Of how even those who claim to stand with me still speak in half-truths and careful flattery. Everyone choosing their corner, their camp, as if loyalty can only exist in fractions.
We all want to change the world, but we refuse to hold hands while doing it.
Is that all this kingdom is? A prettier version of the same fracture?
The old book rests open again, the ink fading, but the words still breathing.
The world was not broken by monsters. It was broken by those too proud to mend it together.
My fingers still. My breath catches.
Because suddenly, I'm not just reading a story.
I'm standing in the middle of it.
And I don't know if I'm meant to carry a sword, a crown, or the burden of asking the question no one else dares to:
What if we stopped choosing sides, and started choosing each other?
But gods, even the book doesn't know the answer to that.
And I wonder if anyone ever has.
I'm still staring at the page—at that one line, the ink slightly smudged by time and maybe a teardrop or two from some long-forgotten reader—when I hear it.
The distinct sound of boot leather on old marble.
Sharp. Confident. Getting closer.
I snap the book shut instinctively, my hand moving to the sword at my side—not out of fear, but habit. The silence of the library has a sanctity to it, and whoever's breaking it clearly hasn't been taught the rules.
The steps stop just a few feet behind me.
"Apologies," a voice says—low, smooth, threaded with the kind of ease that either comes from arrogance or unshakable calm. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I just... didn't expect anyone else to be here at this hour."
I turn.
He's tall—taller than I expected—and dressed in the dark silver-accented uniform of the king's newer guard. Not one of the veterans with rigid posture and battle-worn expressions. No, this one's... newer. Not inexperienced, exactly, but still polished. Still catching eyes.
His hazel gaze meets mine, steady but not challenging. His hair—a cascade of dark curls, barely tamed by the leather tie that holds them back—frames a face that would've made poets sigh and sculptors reach for their chisels.
And stars, he knows it.
I arch a brow. "And who are you supposed to be?"
He offers a small bow—not too deep, just enough to be respectful without groveling. "Alexander. Newly appointed to the inner guard. Your mother insisted on additional protection for the royal family. I drew the short straw for the library post tonight."
"Unlucky you," I murmur, sliding the book back into its place on the shelf behind me. "Or maybe that depends on how much you enjoy eavesdropping."
His lips twitch. "Only if what I'm overhearing is interesting."
I cross my arms, not quite ready to let him charm his way into a full conversation. "You make a habit of walking into libraries unannounced? Or just when there's a princess alone with her thoughts?"
Alexander smiles at that—tilted, boyish, and frustratingly endearing. "Just when the princess is known for being better with a sword than with small talk."
I blink, a little caught off guard. "So, you've heard of me."
"You're not exactly subtle, Princess Ria. Word of your sparring matches travels fast. And... well," he glances down at the scabbard at my hip, "so does the glint of a new sword."
I shift slightly, hand brushing the hilt without thinking. "It was a gift."
"I figured. Not a common design." He pauses, his tone softening just slightly. "Beautiful, though."
I can't tell if he means the sword or something else. Either way, I'm suddenly too aware of how long I've been alone in this room. How long it's been since someone looked at me like they saw more than duty and expectations.
Still—I'm not here for flattery.
"What do you want, Alexander?"
He straightens a little, the lightness in his posture replaced with something more formal. "Just doing my rounds. Making sure the library's secure."
"It's filled with dusty scrolls and history books. What exactly are you worried about? A band of outlaws trying to steal ancient philosophy?"
He laughs at that—an honest, surprised kind of laugh. "With the way this kingdom is going? Wouldn't be the strangest thing I've seen."
He doesn't elaborate, and I don't ask. But his expression shifts, just a fraction, like there's more behind it. Like he's seen something real. Something hard.
Interesting.
"You're not from here," I say, eyeing him more closely now.
He shakes his head. "No. Originally from Velmorra. My family moved here after the wars." He glances at the stained glass high above us, then back to me. "They say your kingdom was the safest. That's why my parents brought us."
Velmorra. The land of collapsed thrones and long winters. A place of deep forests and deeper wounds.
So he knows what fracture looks like.
And suddenly, I find myself lowering my guard just a little.
"Did you read much? Before you became a knight."
"Only when I wanted to impress girls," he says with a wink, then adds, "...but yes. My mother taught me. She said if you don't know your history, you'll be doomed to repeat the worst parts of it."
I glance at the book still warm from my hands, still open to the page about the houses, the balance, the fall.
"Smart woman."
"She is." He looks at me again, more carefully this time. "What were you reading?"
I hesitate. Then, maybe because he asked without trying to impress me, maybe because I'm tired of holding the weight of every thought on my own—I answer.
"An old book. About the continent. About what we lost before any of us were born."
Alexander nods slowly. "And what are you hoping to find in it?"
I don't know why I tell him the truth.
"An answer," I say. "To why even the ones who wanted peace couldn't stay together. Why we all keep choosing separation over unity. Even now."
His expression changes at that. Thoughtful. And very, very quiet.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. "Maybe they didn't think they had a choice."
"Or maybe," I counter, "they were too afraid to make the harder one."
A pause. Then—he smiles again, gentler this time.
"Careful, Princess. With questions like that, you might accidentally change the world."
I smile back, small and sharp. "That's the idea."
-
-
The silence that follows stretches, but not uncomfortably. The kind of quiet that makes space for something unspoken. I close the book gently, my fingers lingering on the worn cover.
Alexander is still watching me, not in the way the court does—like I'm a portrait or a pawn—but like he's trying to see past the surface.
I nod toward the tall, arched doors behind him. "Come on. If you're going to keep interrupting my reading, we might as well walk."
He lifts a brow, amused. "Is that an invitation or a challenge?"
"Depends," I say, brushing past him. "Are you the type who needs his hand held in the dark?"
He follows with a quiet laugh, his footsteps falling in beside mine. "I've fought in three wars, princess. I think I can handle a courtyard at night."
The stone halls are hushed at this hour, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the walls. We pass two guards who straighten the moment they see me, but I wave them off without stopping. Alexander walks just a half step behind me—not enough to seem deferential, but not close enough to imply anything else.
When we reach the courtyard, the sky opens above us--We walk in silence for a few moments, our boots softly crunching over gravel.
"So," I say finally, "Velmorra. You ever miss it?"
He shrugs, hands loosely behind his back. "Sometimes. Mostly the forest. The quiet. The way the snow used to make everything feel clean, like the world could start over every morning."
"Sounds... peaceful."
"It was. Until it wasn't."
I glance at him, catching the faint crease in his brow. There's more there—grief maybe, or memories he doesn't share lightly.
"You lost someone," I say, not as a question.
He nods once. "My brother. The last winter before we left. He stayed behind to fight. Thought he could protect what was left of the village." A pause. "He was wrong."
"I'm sorry," I murmur. And I mean it. There's a weight to his words that feels familiar. Like carrying something sharp in your chest and pretending it doesn't still bleed.
He shrugs again, but it's tighter this time. "It's strange. You spend your life trying to be someone strong enough to save others, and then you realize most people don't want to be saved. They want something to fight against. Something to hate."
"Or someone," I say quietly.
He looks at me then. "Is that what it's like here? You, fighting just to be seen for who you are?"
I pause at the edge of the fountain, leaning my hands on the cold stone rim. "Sometimes I think this crown is just a nicer version of a cage. One they polish so no one notices the bars." I look up at the sky. "But I remember being a little girl, watching the great hall from behind the pillars. Listening to the old stories—of dragons in the clouds and ravens that could speak, of warriors who fought not for power, but for each other."
"And you wanted to be one of them."
"I still do."
Alexander steps beside me, his voice softer now. "Then maybe it's time the stories stopped being stories. Maybe they're waiting for someone to make them real again."
I glance sideways, finding him watching me. Not with pity. Not with expectation. Just... with understanding.
"You're not what I expected," I admit.
He smirks. "Most people assume knights are either thick-skulled brutes or romantics who talk in riddles."
"Which are you?"
He grins. "A little of both."
That makes me laugh—a short, surprised sound. It feels good. Too good.
We fall into an easy rhythm again, circling the courtyard under the sunlight. The wind tugs playfully at my hair, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, I let it. I let myself be here, in this moment, not as a princess or a warrior or a daughter expected to please everyone—but just as me.
Eventually, we stop near a blooming tree—its pale blossoms glowing in the sunlight. I reach up to touch one, delicate between my fingers.
Alexander speaks again, this time more carefully. "Do you think the houses—the Dragons, the Ravens, all of them—do you think they ever regret splitting apart?"
I think about the book. The fall of the old world. The fragile hope that maybe unity could still return.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "But I think the ones who remember what it was like... probably do."
"And what about you?"
I look at him, really look. And I wonder—for the first time in a long time—if I've just met someone who might be willing to walk beside me when the world starts to shake.
"I think I'm tired of being alone in a world that forgot how to listen," I whisper. "And if I ever have a say in it, I won't let the houses stay divided forever."
He nods once, firm. "Then I'll stand with you. When that time comes."
We don't speak after that. Just stand under the sunlight—two strangers who suddenly feel a little less like strangers.
And maybe... something is beginning here.
Something neither of us expected.
Something that could change everything.
The silence between us stretches comfortably, the weight of our shared moment lingering like the scent of jasmine in the night air. For a second, I forget about the crown, the expectations, and everything that weighs on my shoulders. There's only the moon above, the quiet rhythm of our breathing, and the soft rustle of the wind through the trees.
But then, like a sharp gust cutting through the peace, the sound of high heels clacking against the cobblestones breaks the stillness.
My heart sinks a little as I turn to see her—my mother—her long blonde hair shimmering under the moonlight, her piercing green eyes already narrowing with a mixture of anger and frustration. The rigidness in her posture tells me everything I need to know: she's already irritated, and this interruption is going to be... well, less than pleasant.
"Ria," her voice rings out, sharp and commanding, cutting through the moment. "What do you think you're doing out here? The council is waiting for you."
I exhale through my nose, already knowing where this is going. "I was just walking, Mother," I say, trying to keep my voice calm, though my patience is wearing thin.
She glances at Alexander, giving him the same critical once-over she always gives anyone who doesn't fit neatly into her vision of nobility. He stands at ease, not flinching under her scrutiny, which I can't help but appreciate. But her attention shifts back to me almost immediately.
"The council meeting, Ria. You're going to be late," Lady Elira snaps, her tone barely concealing her fury. "And you," she gestures dismissively toward Alexander, "should be ensuring that the princess doesn't forget her duties, not leading her astray with idle chatter."
I straighten up, my chin lifting slightly. "I haven't forgotten anything, Mother. I was just taking a break."
Her green eyes flash with exasperation. "A break?" Her voice rises, just enough to make the guards at the gate glance nervously in our direction. "What do you think this is? A leisure stroll? You're a princess, not a child! You have responsibilities. The kingdom's future doesn't wait for you to wander around with your knight."
I can feel Alexander's presence beside me, but he stays quiet, allowing me to handle this. His eyes, however, flick briefly to my mother, then back to me, a silent understanding passing between us. He knows that this battle isn't his to fight.
I swallow the sharp retort that rises in my throat, trying to keep my composure. "I'm not a child, Mother," I say, my voice quieter, but the edge still there. "I can handle my responsibilities. I'll be there when I'm ready."
Lady Elira doesn't respond immediately, instead giving me that familiar, assessing look. Her lips curl into a thin smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You'll be ready when I say you are," she says coldly. "Now, get yourself together. The council needs to hear from you, and I won't have them questioning your commitment because of some... unseemly distraction."
Her words sting, but I'm too tired to fight it. Not here, not now. My mother's expectations have always loomed large, overshadowing every part of me. It's like trying to breathe under a weight that never quite lets you catch your breath.
I glance at Alexander, whose expression is unreadable, though I can see the tension in the way he stands. He knows my mother well enough by now to understand her disdain for anything she considers "unladylike." I don't want him to be dragged into this, but it seems like the storm is inevitable.
"I'll be there, Mother," I say, trying to sound more composed than I feel. "Just a moment."
"Good," she replies curtly. "Don't make me repeat myself again."
With a flick of her gown, she turns on her heel and storms back toward the castle doors, her footsteps echoing like a constant reminder of the world that's always pressing down on me.
I stand there for a long moment, the cool air of the courtyard suddenly feeling colder. The tension in my chest lingers, a reminder of the battle that's constantly raging between what my mother wants for me and what I long for.
"You don't have to put up with that," Alexander says softly, his voice steady, his gaze kind. "You don't deserve to be spoken to like that."
I look up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. It's a rare thing to hear from anyone who's seen my mother's wrath firsthand. Most people either avoid confrontation or fall in line.
"I don't have much of a choice," I reply with a halfhearted shrug, though I don't mean it. The truth is, I'd do anything to break free from these chains.
He studies me for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. "I can't change what your mother says, Ria. But I can stand with you while you decide who you're going to be."
For the first time tonight, I feel a glimmer of something deep inside—a sense of possibility. Maybe... maybe I don't have to keep walking this path alone.
"You've already stood with me," I say quietly, almost as if the words were meant more for myself than for him.
I take a long breath, letting the tension of the moment slip away as I turn away from Alexander and my mother's retreating figure. I can feel the weight of the council meeting pressing down on me, but there's a part of me that needs a moment of solitude before I face it.
"I'll be fine," I murmur, offering Alexander a tight, apologetic smile. "I need to change. I'll see you there."
He nods, his expression soft, his eyes still full of that quiet understanding. "I'll be waiting."
I turn and make my way back inside the castle, the coolness of the evening air lingering on my skin as the fading light stretches through the high windows. The halls are quieter now, as if the world has grown muted to match my thoughts. My footsteps echo faintly as I ascend the spiral staircase, each step feeling a little heavier than the last.
When I reach my room, I close the door behind me, the soft click of the latch offering me a brief moment of peace. The room is bathed in soft, golden light as the last rays of the evening sun filter in through the tall windows, casting long beams across the stone floor. The warmth of the sun seems to soften the sharp edges of the day, making everything feel just a little bit more bearable.
I stand still for a moment, taking in the serene atmosphere. The quiet, the warmth, the light—it all feels like a brief respite from the weight of the crown, from the endless expectations and responsibilities that have been placed on me.
I move to the large mirror at the far end of the room, where my reflection stares back at me. The sunlight catches in my hair, turning the brown waves into strands of soft gold. I shake out my hair, letting the weight of the day fall away as I reach for the baby blue gown laid across the bed.
The fabric is smooth, a perfect complement to the peaceful light filling the room. It's delicate, flowing, and just a touch softer than the usual royal attire. It feels like a quiet rebellion in its simplicity. I slip into it, the fabric hugging my figure gently, the light fabric flowing as I move.
I take a moment to smooth my hair back, letting the sunlight catch the strands as I arrange it. Even in the midst of all the chaos, my eyes still sparkle. It's a gift from my father's side, I suppose, the way my eyes always manage to catch the light even when my heart feels heavy.
For a brief moment, I forget everything. I forget the council meeting, the weight of the world outside. I'm just standing there in the quiet light, feeling the softness of the gown, the warmth of the room, and the steady beat of my heart.
With a soft exhale, I steady myself, glancing at my reflection one last time. The silver raven pendant around my neck gleams softly in the sunlight, a small, comforting reminder of my father's love, and the quiet strength I carry from him.
I pull my shoulders back, lifting my chin, readying myself for whatever the council meeting holds. The sunlight in the room may fade, but the resolve I feel is something that stays with me, something I won't let go of.
-
The council room hums with low conversations as I step inside, the tension in the air unmistakable. The large oak doors creak slightly behind me as I enter, and I immediately feel the weight of the room's attention. The council members are already gathered, the firelight casting long shadows across the grand space.
My father sits at the head of the long, rectangular table, his presence commanding yet calm. He looks just like me—sharp features, blue eyes, and the same dark hair, which is still thick despite the years. When his gaze lifts to meet mine, it's steady and assured, like always. He's not angry, not even slightly perturbed that I'm late. His demeanor, as usual, exudes control, but there's a quiet warmth in his expression as he gives me a slight nod.
"Ria," he says, his voice smooth, "You're late, but we'll carry on. Take your seat." His tone doesn't carry the usual reprimand I might expect; instead, it's just a simple acknowledgment of my tardiness. There's a sense of understanding in his words, almost as if he's used to this by now.
I nod back and walk over to my usual spot at his right hand, avoiding the curious glances of the council members who have already turned their attention to me. At my seat, I can't help but glance toward my mother, who is seated a little farther down the table. She's dressed in a rich gown, her blonde hair styled to perfection. Her green eyes, always sharp, seem to flicker in my direction, but her gaze doesn't linger. Instead, she offers a polite smile, as if her presence in the room is just a formality, something to add to the décor.
She's not involved in the discussions. Not directly, anyway. She's there simply because it's expected. To sit, look regal, and contribute nothing unless asked. My father, on the other hand, runs the council with the same calm authority he's always had.
"We've received reports from across the kingdom," my father continues, lifting a parchment in his hands, scanning it briefly. His voice remains steady, clear. "The wolves in the north are becoming increasingly aggressive, and the dragons have been shifting in their movements. We need to begin preparations. Alliances first, then defenses."
His eyes lift from the parchment and meet mine again. "Your thoughts, Ria?"
The council falls silent at his words, their eyes darting to me. I know they're not used to hearing my voice, but they're accustomed to my father's respect for me. I've never been dismissed here—not as his daughter, but as someone with something to offer.
I take a breath, steadying myself. "I agree with the need for preparation," I say, my voice even, "but we need to first look inward. The kingdom is fractured, more than we admit. The rifts between the factions are growing, and if we ignore that, we'll only set ourselves up for failure."
My father's eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking. He's listening. Not just to the words I speak, but to the weight behind them. I catch a glance from the other council members, but there's no dismissiveness in my father's gaze. He gives me time, letting my words settle before he responds.
"I think we can afford to address both the external threats and the internal divisions at once," he says, considering. "Strengthening our alliances while also healing the rifts among the factions. Perhaps we begin with diplomacy before we move to fortification."
I nod. It's a rare moment of true collaboration. My father never makes decisions impulsively, and the fact that he's taken my suggestion seriously feels like a quiet victory.
The council murmurs in agreement, and the discussion moves forward. My mother, who has been sitting with a pleasant smile on her face, doesn't speak. She's content to simply watch as my father and I guide the room, her place in the room nothing more than a perfunctory nod to decorum.
I can feel my father's gaze on me once more. There's something unspoken there—a respect that goes beyond bloodline. For a moment, I let myself feel it, that sense of being seen. And not just as his daughter, but as someone who is a part of this.
As the meeting continues, my father's steady leadership leads the room with quiet efficiency. I'm no longer a mere observer. Here, in this space, I have a voice. And in my father's eyes, I am more than just the princess—I'm someone whose thoughts matter, whose opinions are weighed.
-
As the council discussion presses on, my focus drifts once again, despite my best efforts to remain engaged. My eyes skim over the papers in front of me, but I find it hard to concentrate. The murmurs of the council members become a distant hum, drowned out by the flicker of the torchlight and the steady beat of my own thoughts.
What pulls my attention away isn't just the endless political discourse—it's the unexpected sight of Alexander, standing near the back of the room. I hadn't expected him to be here, not in a place like this, amid all the nobles and council members. His dark, curly hair stands out against the backdrop of the room, and despite his usual quiet demeanor, there's an intensity to the way he stands there, eyes sweeping over the room as though he's taking in every detail.
I find myself briefly studying him—his solid frame, the way his posture doesn't bend to the formalities of the room. He's a knight, not a member of the nobility, and yet here he is, as though he's meant to be part of the discussion.
It's strange, seeing him here. For a moment, I'm struck by the disconnect. I wonder if he feels out of place too. But then, my gaze shifts. There's someone else in the room—someone I didn't notice before.
At the far end of the table, a young man with blonde hair and brown eyes is sitting quietly, hands clasped in front of him. He's a lord's son, I recognize him from previous gatherings, though I've never spoken to him directly. There's a tension in the way he holds himself, a rigidity that makes it clear he's not here to simply observe. His eyes flicker occasionally toward the ongoing discussion, but his gaze always shifts toward another subject—something he clearly doesn't agree with.
It's not the political alliances or fortifications he's bothered by—it's the growing divide between the Wolves and the Ravens. His expression twists in distaste each time the discussion turns to it. It's a subtle thing, but I can see it, the faint clenching of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows when the Ravens are mentioned in opposition to the Wolves. It doesn't take long for me to realize: he's not happy with the idea of those two factions at odds.
The thought lingers in my mind. I, too, dislike the tension between the Ravens and the Wolves. There's something unsettling about it—something unnatural about the way both sides seem poised for conflict, when in the past, they were so intertwined. But I say nothing. The council is already volatile enough without my own personal frustrations showing.
For a brief moment, I wonder why I haven't spoken out against it. Why I let this division grow without challenging it. But my thoughts are cut short as the discussion shifts, and my father's commanding voice takes center stage once more.
"Ria," he calls, drawing my attention back to the matter at hand. "Your thoughts?"
I blink, realizing that I've drifted into a quiet reverie, staring at nothing in particular. I take a breath, forcing myself to center in on the conversation. My gaze flickers back to Alexander, still standing near the back, before it lands on the young lord with the blonde hair. I note his reaction once more, and though I remain silent, the thought nags at me.
Something in me wonders if he, too, shares the quiet discontent I feel about this growing divide. But whether it's better to speak up or stay silent remains an unanswered question in my mind, one that I don't know the answer to just yet.
Instead, I clear my throat and speak, my voice firm. "I think the current path we're on is one of compromise. If we're to keep the peace, we must find a way to unite the houses without further fracturing them. The Ravens and Wolves should not be at odds. This division serves no one."
My father's eyes flicker to mine with an approving look, while the council members exchange glances. A few of them murmur agreement, others hesitate. But for the first time today, I feel like my words have weight in the room. And somehow, I feel Alexander's eyes on me—though I can't bring myself to look back.